


soft.

by stormpilots



Category: Guardians of the Whills - Fandom, Rogue One: A Star Wars Story (2016), Star Wars - All Media Types
Genre: Chirrut Îmwe is a Little Shit, Cuddling & Snuggling, Fluff, Growing Old Together, M/M, Old Age, Old Husbands, Old Men Who Love Each Other, POV Chirrut Îmwe, Pre-Canon, Reminiscing, Romance, SFW Mentions of Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-26
Updated: 2017-08-26
Packaged: 2018-12-20 00:02:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,976
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11909010
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stormpilots/pseuds/stormpilots
Summary: For so intimidating a man, Baze Malbus is very soft.





	soft.

For so intimidating a man, Baze Malbus is very soft. With you, at least. It's one of the many things you love about him. While you know little about his appearance other than the general shape of him, it's not difficult for you to tell that he gives off a very cold, unwelcoming air. You couldn't find that more amusing, because it couldn't be further from what the man really is. At first glance (you assume this is what it would be at first glance, although all you have is the knowledge of his size and the atmosphere you picked up when you first met him to go by) he seems awfully cold, uninterested, even frightening. But Baze Malbus is a gentle creature. Loving. Kind.

The atmosphere around him changed very quickly when you first met him. You felt . . . _something_ immediately on being in a room with him, something you wanted to explore further. In order to do so, you accidentally-on-purpose tripped over nothing, which he put down to your blindness, and caught you before you fell. You took his hand, and in that brief moment of skin-on-skin contact, you felt that _something_ again, far more intensely. And that was when the atmosphere softened, and you knew, and he knew.

You didn't love him then, although he insists he loved you, but you came to love him more quickly than you had ever come to love anything or anyone, or ever have since. He grew very affectionate very quickly, and you grew very happy with affection (you hadn't been fond of it before, but suddenly you wanted nothing more than to feel his beard scratch you as he kissed your cheek, or to feel the roughness of calloused palms as he held your hand) just as quickly. In fact, everything about your relationship with Baze happened quickly. It was bound to, however. You knew that from the moment he first took your hand in his.

You grew old together, you and Baze. Never once did your love for him falter, and it was always clear that neither did his. He stayed just as affectionate as ever, as devoted, as loving. He spent as much time as he possibly could at your side, often using the excuse that he was concerned you might injure yourself -- a very real possibility -- although you've always known that more than anything he just wanted to be near you. Even after his faith failed him, even after the Empire assumed control of the moon you both called home, even as much of Jedha's population fled, he was by your side whenever he could be. You know he would have been among those leaving if not for you. You greatly appreciate that, although you wouldn't protest if he did choose to go. You know he won't, not without you. And you can't leave Jedha, nor the Temple of the Kyber. While Baze's faith may have abandoned him, yours is still with you.

You very rarely acknowledge your appreciation of the things he does for you. You know he knows, of course, you always know these things, but you do wish you said it more often. You're terrible with things like that, you find you're much better at teasing your husband than you are at being soft with him. He's the one who murmurs quiet words of adoration in the dead of night, when all is silent and he isn't sure if you're asleep or not. He's the one who reminds you constantly of his love, despite knowing that you can feel it just by being near him. He's the one who showers you in small kisses, when you're alone at home and he's looking for any excuse not to drink his tea -- you know he hates Tarine, and if Chav were less hard to come by you would have him make that for you both instead. He's the one who goes for your hand when you walk with him, as if he's afraid you'll wander off. It's not that you love him any less than he loves you. It's that, truth be told, you don't know how to show it.

You _wish_ you could be so soft. You wish you could do as he does, could speak with the same poetic eloquence as he does when he whispers in your ear at night. You wish you could touch him with the same gentle, feather light ease that he does when he caresses your face, somehow managing to do so in a way that the callouses on his hands don't feel rough or scratchy. You wish you could make him laugh the way he makes you laugh, a soft, ghost of a laugh, not of amusement but of happiness, just by pressing tiny kisses to your lips. You simply aren't soft.

You find yourself thinking of things like this more and more often as you grow older. Now, in your fifty-first year, you're greeted by those thoughts near every day. Because in all the years you've been with him (more than twenty, twenty-nine to be exact) you can't remember a day that he didn't kiss you, didn't tell you he loved you, didn't tell you that even though you can't see it, you're the most beautiful thing he's ever laid eyes on. You've told him many times that you love him, of course -- but you seldom say it first, and you always feel that it lacks the effect it has when coming from him.

However, these thoughts bring with them the memories of countless little displays of affection, tiny kisses to your forehead to offering you his arm when you walk, and those memories bring a smile to your face. So as you sit beside him, with your head on his shoulder and your unseeing eyes fluttering shut, you can feel the ghost of a smile on your lips. And you can feel his eyes -- which are quite functional -- on you.

"You're smiling," he says softly, and you can feel his body move beside you, causing his arm around you to shift, and his hand to leave its position on your hip, now on your waist. "Is something funny?"

You've had this conversation before, you're certain, but you don't complain. It's a nice conversation. A soft conversation. One that's very Baze.

"No," you reply, your voice just as quiet, "I was thinking of you."

Next comes from him a short question, the inevitable "What about me?"

" _You_ ," you say simply, pausing a moment before going on, "I like to remember you as you have been over the years."

His silence is reply enough; he wants you to continue. Usually this is where you either change the subject, or make a joke. You know what he's after, however. Something unlike you, something difficult for you. Something very . . . soft. You'll surprise him tonight, you think. You'll give it to him.

"When we met, and we hardly knew each other," you begin, your words slow, careful. Your voice is even, quiet, so that even if you weren't alone in the room, anybody else would struggle to listen in. "When we were young, and our love younger, and we saw nothing but each other -- metaphorically of course, I never even saw you. When you first told me you loved me, and all I could feel from you was an overwhelming mix of anxiety and adoration, and you very nearly cried when I said I loved you too."

It's at that point Baze chooses to speak, interrupting the flow of reminiscence that's far more like him than you, and throwing you off. "If I recall, your words weren't 'I love you too'," he reminds you, "they were 'it's about fucking time'."

You huff, and fold your arms, and you can feel his amusement even as you hear him laugh, ever so quietly, more an outward breath through his nose. "Fine then," you mutter, "I guess you don't want me to keep going."

He corrects you even more quickly than you thought he would, " _No_ , no, I do! I was enjoying it. Keep talking, bluebird. I won't interrupt again."

If you could, you'd shoot him a look at this point -- however looking isn't a part of your skillset, so you can't. Instead, you settle for making a soft "hmm" noise, raising an eyebrow. "You'd better not."

He replies with silence, and you know your point has been made, and that it's safe to continue. After taking a moment to remember where you were, you take a breath. "I was remembering how you never left my side -- you still don't, you're basically my shadow," the way you say it is teasing, but he knows that you like his constant presence. As you can't see, you take comfort in feeling him there, spiritually and physically. "Our first night together, when you promised me there would never be any other person you would get close to like that, and I promised you the same," you pause again, amused. You very rarely speak about your nights together, unless you want to use it to initiate another one. But you think that was ambiguous enough to keep from arousing him. You don't feel a reaction, and take that as affirmation that you succeeded. Perhaps that will come later. Now, you're trying to do what he does, trying to be soft.

"When you made a show of yourself, tripping over your own feet when you got down on one knee," your voice softens even further here, and you can't help the fond smile on your face, "and I was frozen watching you -- well, not _watching_ , per se, but you know what I mean -- not sure, but desperately hoping that I was right about what I thought was coming. When you tried to be brief at first, but ended up making a whole speech, and I was crying by the time you finished, and was saying yes before you'd even managed to get out the whole question -- 'will you marry me'?" you sigh softly, and turn when you feel Baze's lips on your cheek, kissing those lips gently, briefly. "On the day of our wedding, when even though I couldn't see you I swore there had never been a more beautiful sight in all of time. And _you_ , you smooth fucker, turned around and told me that was because I had walked into the room."

You feel as well as hear his laughter, as well as his shrug. "Well it was true," he says in his defence, "you looked incredible. Not that you don't always, but . . . there was something so special about you on the day we got married. You were shining. Radiant. _Perfect_. Everything I knew you would be. And you were _mine_. I can't imagine anything more beautiful to this day."

"Shut up," you mumble, cheeks burning, and even as you say it you know what's coming. You know because you hear the words 'shut up' constantly from your husband, and your response is always the same.

" _Make me_ ," he whispers, his voice carrying a teasing note. He's been aching for this opportunity, but until now you've never given it to him. Not even in the form of a soft 'hush'.

You don't hesitate to do as you're told, resting your hands on either side of his face as you do so. You have to shift, now kneeling beside him, your eyes shut despite the lack of difference it makes as he rests both hands on either side of your waist and pulls you into his lap. And as you melt into the warmth of his lips on your lips, you realise something.

You _are_ soft. You weren't always, and you still aren't always. But _stars_ , this man you've landed yourself with. Baze Malbus. Your husband, your guardian. Your everything. Goodness, you're soft for him.


End file.
